


The Book of Life

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Friendship, Gen or Pre-Slash, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Light Angst, Multi, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 09:56:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6951673
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Holmes observed Watson’s scars, and one time he allowed Watson to see his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Book of Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Red_Chapel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Red_Chapel/gifts).



1.  
The calendar said June, but the leaden skies and damp chill in the air spoke more of the start of spring than the beginning of summer. I would not have minded had I had a case, or an interesting chemical problem; indeed, I would only have taken note of the weather insofar as it affected my investigation or my research. But I had no such occupation to hand. I glanced towards my violin, but my gaze stopped halfway, my attention snagged by my fellow-lodger.  
  
I had not known him long, but already John Watson stood out as one of the more interesting men I had ever met. In our initial meeting, I thought I had observed and deduced the most relevant details about the man: undistinguished army doctor invalided out from service, in no condition financially, physically, or mentally to be overly particular, unlikely to have the health or energy to be intrusive, and therefore a suitable prospect for sharing the lodging I had found. I anticipated no difficulties with the fellow. In that last deduction, at least, I had been proven correct. In all else, however, I had seen only what was evident on the surface, and not what was truly relevant. I never anticipated Watson’s interest in my cases, or the pleasure I would find in that interest, or in his company generally. Nor had I derived any idea of his depths. For someone who seemed in all ways ordinary and predictable, Watson had proved capable of surprising me more than once.  
  
Just at the moment, however, Watson was stretched out on our sofa, fully dressed, and huddled beneath the lap-blanket Mrs. Hudson had thoughtfully provided less than a week after our taking up residence. Given the weather and Watson’s still-delicate health, his presence on the sofa was not at all surprising, despite his evident lack of enthusiasm for his current reading material. I doubted I could tempt him out for a walk, and I would not chance asking, for I could more easily predict the deleterious effects it would have on his health if he agreed than his answer itself. However…  
  
“What is your opinion of the Turkish bath?”  
  
Watson’s reaction to my apparent non-sequitur was as interesting as the rest of him. He neither showed any sign of surprise nor demanded an explanation of my question. He merely tilted his head as he considered it, then focused his attention on me. “I have found the English interpretation of them preferable to the _hamam_ ,” he said seriously.  
  
“I am delighted to hear you say so,” I replied nonchalantly, while inwardly making a note to ask him more about his experiences in whatever _hamams_ were at a later time. “As it happens, I have heard of a recently-opened establishment in Oxford Street, and I have no pressing business. Would you care to join me in investigating the place?”  
  
Watson smiled and put his novel aside. “I would be delighted to join you. I happen to be in funds at the moment, and a visit to a Turkish bath seems a very reasonable treat.”  
  
Watson’s ‘being in funds’ extended to his suggesting taking a cab, which I would have proposed in any case. I found his departure from his usual practical-minded caution with expenses noteworthy, but refrained from remarking upon it. Within a short time, we found ourselves alighting at a very ordinary-looking building. The interior, however, was as exotic as might be imagined. Judging by the twitching of Watson’s moustache, I guessed that the décor owed far more to British-born Oriental fantasies than anything he had seen in situ. He said nothing, however, just took everything in stride with an interested good-humour.  
  
It was only in the dressing-room that I witnessed a change in his demeanour. He emerged from his alcove wrapped in the complimentary robe offered to all the patrons. A sensible precaution; although the dressing room was many degrees warmer than the entrance room had been, it was still far cooler than the warm room would be. I was bundled into my own robe myself. However, while I lost no time handing it over to the attendant waiting at the door to the warm room, Watson visibly hesitated. I saw some strong emotion flicker briefly across his face, and then he set his jaw. Slowly, with deliberation, he pulled off his robe.  
  
I knew his wounds still pained him. I had not realized, until that moment, that Watson was bothered by the scars left by his injuries in more than just the physical sense.  
  
I had not seen his scars before. Professionally speaking, I harboured a great deal of curiosity about them. Any opportunity to observe the scarring of human flesh benefitted my knowledge, both in evaluating the nature of other wounds, and in reproducing appropriate effects with makeup for my disguises. The towel wrapped around Watson’s waist did nothing to hide his injuries. The scarring was livid, and more extensive than I had anticipated. Additionally, he was still far too thin for a man of his build; his bones stood out prominently, even more than my own. Little wonder that the unseasonably cold and damp weather troubled him. Anyone would deduce as much.  
  
What few would deduce, but what I saw almost instantly, was that Watson found observation of the marks left by his injuries at least as painful, mentally speaking, as the scars themselves. I saw it in the rigid uprightness of his posture; in the way Watson carefully stared straight ahead and never glanced at me or the attendant; at the controlled way he did not react when the attendant sucked in a startled breath.  
  
I stepped in between Watson and the gawking fellow before Watson could react – could be hurt – further. “Come along, Watson, it’s too cold in here to dawdle.” I opened the door to the warm room, welcoming the rush of heated air, and enjoying the minute relaxation of Watson’s posture even more. Clearly he had expected some kind of reaction from me, and was relieved at my failure to remark upon them.  
  
The warm room was dimly lit and sparsely inhabited, conditions which should have relaxed Watson further. However, one of the other men stared at Watson outright, and two of the others looked away from us with a studied care that was almost worse than the first man’s rude curiosity. Fortunately, it did not take long for us to find a seat in an otherwise-unoccupied alcove. Once resting in its relative privacy, Watson lost some of the tension around his eyes.  
  
Some, but not all. I quickly realized that further distraction would likely prove beneficial. Accordingly, I started a low-voiced conversation with Watson. It was not at all my habit to converse anywhere, much less a public warm room in a Turkish bath, but I rose to the challenge. It proved surprisingly pleasant. Watson displayed interest in, and knowledge of, a wide array of topics, and I already knew he was a superb listener. By the time we were both ready for the cold pool, Watson had lost all traces of self-consciousness. Better yet, all the other men had departed, and no others had arrived. We had the place to ourselves.  
  
Still, watching Watson plunge into the pool – and seeing the full extent of the havoc war and illness had wreaked upon his body – I wondered what other, less-apparent scars my Watson might carry, apart from the marks on his skin.  
  
  
2.  
Watson shook his head as the sitting-room door closed behind [Inspector Lanner and Doctor Percy Trevelyan](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Resident_Patient). “That was truly remarkable, Holmes,” he said. “The way you reconstructed the crime, and the manner of poor Blessington’s murder, from your examination of the room and the traces left on the door-lock and the stairs – it was as if you had been present yourself. You described it so clearly, I could see it vividly in my mind’s eye.”  
  
I am not a man inclined to blush, but Watson’s simple, sincere praise warmed me far better than our coal fire on that chilly October afternoon. “It was merely a matter of observation and logical deduction,” I pointed out.  
  
“Not merely that,” Watson disagreed. “Your recalling the Worthington bank robbery from so many years ago, and being able to research the matter so thoroughly in a few short hours, is as much a matter of study and knowledge as anything else.”  
  
I smiled and returned the compliment. “It was no more remarkable than you recognizing Doctor Trevelyan’s name from your medical journals, and remembering his monograph on nervous lesions. Both are the natural result of professional interest and regular reading; you of the Lancet and other medical journals, and my own perusal of the doings of the criminal courts.”  
  
“I daresay you are a little more diligent in your studies these days than I am. I am still woefully behind in reading the journals and monographs issued during my time abroad. It is fortunate that Trevelyan’s article came out before I left London.” A strange expression flitted across Watson’s expressive face, too rapidly for me to be entirely certain what it was. “Of course it is of little matter. Having neither sufficient health yet, nor a Blessington to back me, I do not see a return to practice anytime in the near future.” From another man, those words might have been tinged with bitterness or self-pity. From Watson, they were merely a statement of fact, the stolid recognition of obstacles yet to be overcome.  
  
And he was not wrong. Watson’s health was far better than it had been, but it was by no means robust; certainly not strong enough to meet the challenges of regular medical practice. Even a partial return, semi-regular interaction with the diseased and sick, might strain his still-weakened constitution with disastrous results. Better by far that he remain focused on his own recovery, rather than the well-being of others.  
  
Caught up in my own musings, I was slow to notice the gradual shifting of Watson’s expression. By the time I did, it had darkened considerably. He was not looking at me, but caught up in some unhappy contemplation of his own. Hastily, I grasped for something that might divert him. “Shall we celebrate our success by dining out this evening? I believe we would have no trouble procuring an early table at Simpson’s.”  
  
The response to my suggestion was exactly contrary to my intention. If anything, Watson’s expression turned even more bleak before his jaw set. I recognized that tell-tale sign of determination, even if I had no idea what might lie behind it. “While your success is worthy of celebration, Holmes, I fear I must decline to join you. I find myself rather short this month. I fear I have been rather unlucky of late in wagers and games at my club.” He hesitated briefly, then went on. “In fact, I should probably give you my half of the rent now, while I am still certain I have enough to cover it.”  
  
I carefully kept my expression neutral even as an icy foreboding shivered through my blood. For Watson to be in financial difficulties so soon after quarter-day was dire indeed. What could - ?  
  
As soon as I asked the question of myself, I knew the answer.  
  
Watson was still in convalescence, but unfortunately idleness did not suit him. He was far too active a man by nature to easily withstand long periods of inactivity, no matter how necessary. His time in the Army had only confirmed a need for action, for excitement, that I suspected had always been part of his character. Deprived of useful employment, exercise, or even the diversion of one of my cases, he had turned instead to one of the most dangerous legacies of his service, one that had left scars on his temperament as deep as the physical ones on his body: wagering and games of chance.  
  
Gambling. It had ruined many men. Indeed, it was one of the reasons Watson had needed to share rooms with me in the first place. He had told me as much, frankly, soon after we met. And like a fool, I had noted the fact, but failed to draw the correct conclusions, or observe the evidence of its resurgence in his affairs.  
  
Admitting his weakness was clearly painful, yet Watson had just done so, however obliquely. The very least I could do was to acknowledge his gesture, accept his offer. So I would; but I would be damned if that was all I would do. I would not lose Watson, nor let him be lost to his addiction, his need for excitement. I could not cure it any more than I could mend his body; but I could provide other, safer outlets in the form of my cases. I could involve him more often, perhaps even indulge him in his idea of writing about them, if it provided a safe amusement for his sedentary hours. More importantly, I could help him protect himself from himself, if I could only find some way of doing so that would not insult his pride.  
  
All this flashed through my mind in a matter of moments. “Never mind, dear fellow; Mrs. Hudson’s roast will serve us well enough, although I believe I will send the page-boy for a bottle of wine to toast the occasion. Fees for one case do not translate into riches, after all, and you are wise to remind me to be cautious with funds.”  
  
Watson coloured slightly, but I continued on, not allowing him to interject or dwell. “With luck, Doctor Trevelyan’s matter will be soon followed by many others. I have had a drought of cases lately, but Inspector Lanner is an inveterate gossip. Between his talking of the affair, and Doctor Trevelyan’s promise of referrals, I expect to find myself fully occupied in the coming months.”  
  
“Deservedly so, Holmes.”  
  
I waved a dismissive hand. “Perhaps, but it takes time to build up a reputation and a clientele. It is not a problem limited to doctors, but one common to all professionals. Until then, we must take whatever clients we can.” I paused, and allowed myself to clear my throat. A little drama, not too much, but enough to catch Watson’s attention and engage his sympathies. “Speaking of which, Watson, I have been remiss in advising you of some of the risk you face.”  
  
“Risk?” Watson straightened in his chair. “How so? What risk?”  
  
“As I am sure you have noticed, not all of my clients are as upstanding or harmless as Doctor Trevelyan. In fact, some are very nearly petty criminals themselves.” Were criminals, I could have said, but often only because poverty cares little for rules, and English law was not as just in practice as it meant to be in principle. “Meeting clients in our rooms, as I do, I expose your belongings and person to all the risks I myself have decided to take.”  
  
Watson shrugged. “I do not mind your conducting your business here, Holmes. I told you as much at the beginning.”  
  
“And I have taken full advantage of your good-nature in taking you at your word,” I confessed. “But all the same, it would perhaps be best if you took some precautions against casual mischief. You might consider having me lock up easily-taken valuables in my desk, for instance.”  
  
“Your desk?” Watson looked at me, puzzled. “Why not my own? It has a drawer that locks, just as yours does.”  
  
I did not have to fake a chuckle. “Forgive me, Watson, but your desk has a lock that a child could pick with little effort. My own is somewhat more proof against casual larceny.” True enough; and I took other precautions besides. I shrugged. “I would happily lock up anything you wanted to keep secure until you asked for it.”  
  
Watson blinked, and I saw the moment comprehension settled over him. His smile relieved me more than words could tell. “I see.” He stroked his moustache with one finger, then nodded. “An excellent suggestion, Holmes. As it happens, I think I would be more comfortable if you kept some items for me. Thank you for the suggestion.” He rose from his chair. “Let me gather them together now.”  
  
I said nothing when I saw Watson’s cheque-book in the small pile of belongings he gave to me for safekeeping. There was no need.  
  
  
3.  
 _“[This is unworthy of you, Holmes!](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Sign_of_the_Four/Chapter_1)”_  
  
Watson’s angry diatribe, and the emotions behind it, roused me from my drug-fuelled haze as little else could have done. Too late, I saw the other facts that the watch represented; the tell-tale signs that there was more to the story than the tawdry little tale I had told without thought.  
  
More to my Watson’s reaction than just the recent loss of a brother, or careless words about the life that brother had lived.  
  
There was old pain there, ancient scars of a family life marked with trouble, and a brotherly relationship not worthy of the name. Jewellery and property all left to the eldest son – little or nothing bequeathed to other children. That much was relatively customary, but the intensity of Watson’s reaction spoke of more than the financial neglect that is the institutional lot of younger sons. Prosperous fathers – and Watson’s father must have been so, given the watch – usually make some provision for their other children, and yet there had never been any sign that Watson had other resources. Gambled away or otherwise lost? Possible, but unlikely; there was nothing of guilt in this. Neglect? Had Watson been the unfavoured child, always forgotten in the shadow of the prized older brother? Perhaps, but how could any father fail to see the worth of so worthy a son as John Watson? A thousand scenarios suggested themselves to my mind, but I dismissed them, for none could be proven at this juncture.  
  
What then could be deduced from the brother, whose existence I had never even heard of until this moment? Years of residing together, innumerable cases that concerned family matters, and yet there had never been a word, a sign, that he had any relatives yet living. Watson, my frank, open-hearted Watson, had never mentioned him. He had always acted as if he was alone in this world, without family ties. Moreover, as furious and ashamed as he was, yet he seemed as unaware of the particulars of his brother’s last years as I myself had been until I revealed the secrets the watch told me. This meant something, something that should be obvious to me, and I forced my cocaine-racing thoughts to follow the thread to its logical conclusion.  
  
He had never gone to his brother for help. That could be the only conclusion, as unthinkable as it seemed. My Watson had returned injured and shattered from Afghanistan, in need, and yet plainly had never sought assistance from his elder brother. I had absolutely no doubt that if I had found myself in similar straits, I could and would have gone to my brother Mycroft, and he would have found ways to help me until I was recovered enough to support myself. My instinctive faith in the fraternal bond between us was unshakable, a tie that dated back to my earliest memories, and had been proven time and again in countless ways. Yet the mere mention of his brother had turned my normally trusting friend, a man as close to me as my own flesh and blood, into an angry, defensive fellow who instinctively attributed intentional cruelty to my every thoughtless word.  
  
Oh, Watson.  
  
Irrationally, I briefly wished H. Watson back into earthly existence – just long enough for me to... But that was idle fancy, and I had far more important matters to remedy: namely, the hurt I had so unwittingly afflicted, and the wounds I had inadvertently reopened. Apologies were immediately necessary, and more. I would have to remind Watson how much I truly valued him, and help him see – not that he ever really did, and now I understood that peculiarity far better than I ever had before – his own inestimable worth. I only hoped that some case would present itself soon, one that would hold opportunities for me to demonstrate just how much I relied upon him: his abilities, his judgment, his companionship.  
  
 _“My dear doctor, pray accept my apologies…”_  
  
  
4.  
Watson looked at the box I had given him. “You want me to take a parcel to Charing Cross Station, to be left until called for.”  
  
“Yes,” I answered, a little puzzled by Watson’s uncharacteristic behaviour. He rarely questioned my requests, however unusual.  
  
Not this time. Watson set the box down on the side-table and glared at it as if it was a personal insult. “What is it this time, Holmes? Am I to be the distraction for your quarry, or a decoy for the actual messenger, or merely a stooge who cannot answer any inconvenient questions if asked, and therefore cannot give the game away?”  
  
I gaped at him, astonished. “My dear fellow!”  
  
“I have hardly seen you for months, Holmes. Yet today you send for me by wire, asking me to stop by at this particular hour, and after the most desultory inquiries about my general well-being, you ask me to carry something to the train station for you when I leave.” He shook his head, exasperation clear in every movement. “I do not know why I am surprised. [You use me](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Hound_of_the_Baskervilles/Chapter_12) once again, as you always do. I should expect nothing else.”  
  
I stifled an oath. My plan was working well – too well. I had expected Watson to be somewhat offended by my request, and that the incident would lend credence to a growing coolness between us. It was vital that Moriarty and his men not believe us to be as close as we had been formerly, that we were drifting apart as Watson’s career and married life exerted more influence than his friendship with his egotistical, demanding former fellow-lodger. By treating him as an errand-boy, and sending him on a meaningless one to boot, I had hoped to kill two birds with one stone: convincing Moriarty’s men that I considered Watson little more than a convenience, and annoying Watson himself – a little.  
  
Yet it was equally vital that Watson not lose his trust in me. His unquestioning willingness to follow my requests might yet save his life, someday, if Moriarty’s organization proved as far-reaching and dangerous as I thought. I meant to create a bit of distance, not a break; but I had placed leverage on a weak spot in our friendship, one I myself had caused. First in the Baskerville case, and then again in that [appalling matter of Culverton Smith](https://en.wikisource.org/wiki/The_Adventure_of_the_Dying_Detective), I had given Watson entirely too much evidence that suggested I did not trust him. I had seen it then, but not realized the depth of the trouble, the wound, I had inflicted.  
  
How to explain that it was not him that I did not trust, but myself?  
  
How to tell him that I had every faith in his abilities, his loyalty, and yes, his intelligence and discretion, and that I trusted no man in England more, not excepting my own brother?  
  
How to relate that in this great game I was playing against Moriarty, I would sacrifice almost any other piece on the board, but never him? That I would do almost anything to keep him and his Mary safe, even though I knew perfectly well that if Watson knew the danger, he would willingly face it with me – in fact take every care to ensure my safety, even at the expense of his own?  
  
I could not, of course. Not any of it. But I could not let this misunderstanding fester any further, either. I shook my head.  
  
“I ought to have known better,” I said, and that at least was the truth. “I sought to prove a hypothesis, but I failed to take your feelings into account. I regret having troubled you.”  
  
Instead of accepting my oblique apology at once, or storming out in justified annoyance, he cocked his head and looked at me intently. His eyes narrowed. “Holmes,” he said at last, “you do know that I will perform any task you ask of me, within reason and without question, don’t you?”  
  
“Well – yes,” I answered. My voice lacked some of its habitual certainty.  
  
“I should certainly hope so, as you’ve had evidence enough to prove it a dozen times over.” Watson huffed into his moustache and picked up the box. “And you certainly never need fabricate an errand just to see me.” He started towards the door.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
Watson looked at me as if I was daft. “Charing Cross Station, of course, and then on to the rest of my rounds. But I’ll expect to see you again some evening in a week or two. Perhaps then you’ll be able to tell me a little more about one or two of your cases.” He looked at me, and I swore I saw him wink. “If not, I can show _you_ my latest manuscript.”  
  
“Ha!” The laugh escaped before I could stop it. “Watson, I never do get your limits.”  
  
Watson grinned. “Never yet,” he agreed, and walked out the door.  
  
  
5.  
Three years can alter many things. It is a lifetime to some, a blink of an eye to others. Even mountains and cities can change in such a span, and men are much more malleable than stone.  
  
London was not the city I had left. Much of her remained the same; the buildings, the public streets, the chaotic congestion of her byways. But there were differences, too; a tree gone here, a new shop there, mews and liveries that had switched owners and characters. New faces replaced old. Familiar faces were strange, no longer exactly how I remembered them.  
  
Time had carved some of the new lines on Watson’s face; she had added some of the silver I could see beneath the brim of his hat and glinting in his moustache.  
  
But the passage of years was only responsible for some of those creases, the stealing of colour and replacing it with false coin. The vast majority were the tell-tale marks of grief, of pain.  
  
Grief for a wife lost, for a friend dead. Pain inflicted on himself, by himself, for his perceived failures, however wrongly believed.  
  
I could not erase those new lines from my friend’s face, or bring back the brown that had been lost to grey, any more than I could wipe out the traces that the last three years had left on my own flesh. But I could try to make amends, lift some of the weight from those still-strong shoulders, and in so doing, hopefully relieve some of the burdens that troubled us both.  
  
  
+1.  
“Holmes.” Watson half-growled my name in his exasperation. I could hear the concern behind it, and the caring.  
  
I sipped obediently from the glass Watson had given me, outwardly placid, but inwardly my mind raced. He would forgive me if – when – I asked. He had forgiven me readily just a short time ago, in the spring of 1894. Not easily; never that. That casual word would demean the greatness of mind and soul my Watson showed, and the effort it cost him. He had not hidden that effort, or the pain he had felt at my deception. No, it had not been easy, but he had accepted my explanations, my apologies, and so we had moved on.  
  
He so rarely hid anything from me: his grief, his hurt, his past failures, his current struggles. His scars, and how they pained him; and how he struggled to overcome them. Not failed to conceal them, but actively allowed me to see, regardless of knowing that I would have seen them anyway.  
  
Could I be so brave? Could I try to follow the example Watson had set, so many times, in so many ways? Could I let him see, even a glimpse?  
  
For I too had scars, and pain, and failures, both past and present; I too felt, and feared, and struggled.  
  
I could hide my secrets from him, as he could not from me. I had done so from the very beginning. I could keep on as I had been, remain unchanged, or at least pretend to be so.  
  
Or I could trust Watson not to recoil, as I had never recoiled from him. To have faith in him, as he had always had in me, and in so doing, possibly find relief I had never expected. Perhaps discover something even better than that.  
  
“Watson,” I started.  
  
His eyes lifted immediately to mine, and I found the last bit of courage I needed, there in the depths.  
  
“John.”


End file.
